


Is it raining in Heaven?

by CaptainSlow



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, because I'm a sucker for it, fluff and happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 13:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14716536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSlow/pseuds/CaptainSlow
Summary: "You smell of rain," Crowley mumbles, voice still hoarse from sleep, words muffled against the angel's throat, a ghost of warm breath making the latter shiver despite himself. "Was it really raining in Heaven?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh... writing this piece wasn't all that difficult, but writing a note proves to be a sort of challenge. First things first, I believe I need to say that even though I'm totally hooked on this Good Omens universe and been reading it for the past four years, I wasn't planning on taking it as far as actually writing a story myself. I'm from a totally different fandom and more used to hanging out on a different site (Rammstein and Deviantart, if anyone's interested). I was perfectly contented to be there and occasionally scribble some tearful fluff just for the hell of it, and then stars must have aligned and that Queen's 'No one but you' song chose to happen to me with its 'Is it raining in heaven' line, and well... then this happened XD 
> 
> For another thing, English is not my first language so I beg pardon for anything funny which might have occurred to my choice of words. 
> 
> And, finally... well, feedback is always nice and welcome and blah blah, but what I really hope for is that I won't have to dodge rotten tomatoes thrown at me, or something. I don't consider myself to be a writer, let alone a 'not a bad writer', but sometimes these blasted stories just happen and I see no point in keeping them on my hard drive. So, yeah, here we go, I suppose, and enjoy if you dare XD

**1**

*******

_Is it raining in Heaven? ©_

*******

Crowley has absolutely no idea where he is driving. He just is. Been doing just that for the past few hours, at the most modest estimation. He has no idea where he currently is, either. Definitely out of London, judging by the rural landscape that has changed the concrete and glass of the city and then the stone and wood of the suburbs.

The thing is, he doesn't particularly _want_ to know either where he is bound to or his whereabouts. He isn't sure he wants anything because what is the whole point of it all anyway? What is the whole point of the miraculously avoided Apocalypse, what is the point of the salvaged Earth, what is the point of him being here, driving his restored Bentley, when the passenger's seat is acutely devoid of its constant occupant? What is the whole point of it all now when he is alone?

The thunderheads that were gathering in the east in the morning have finally obscured the entire sky, from horizon to horizon, dark, looming and oppressive. They don't look threatening to Crowley, though, not the way those thunderclouds looked back above the Tadfield airbase a little more than two months ago. These ones, stormy and majestic as they are, seem more devastating and poignant rather than anything else, perfectly reflecting and intensifying Crowley's own state of mind.

The first blast of thunder rolls down from above, so loud that it makes the demon give a start and swerve. And that is exactly the moment the Bentley decides to change the ever-present soundtrack by Queen to yet another soundtrack, unsurprisingly enough, also by Queen, just as the first drops of rain splash against the windshield. What confuses Crowley, though, is that he has never heard the song that's now playing. Not that it bothers him much – it is the Bentley that is a life-long fan of Mercury's band, not him, so if it all of a sudden decides to play something it never has before – well, who is he to question his car's choice of music? Not that it ever obeyed him when he tried to change the song in the first place, so sticking with it is his only option.

It doesn't bother him only during the first few accords, however, because, as the rain picks up its strength, so does the song; and it isn't something about an angel in its lyrics that makes Crowley lose it completely. He knows for a fact that Queen are rather impartial to the topic of Heaven, bringing it up now and again in one song or another, so it is no surprise, really, to hear them going on about angels yet again. That is already bad enough, of course, bad enough but still bearable. But no, it is another line which, given the circumstances, sounds either like mockery or an elaborate torment devised by someone heartless specifically for him. And maybe it was; for all he knows _this_ might be his punishment for his messing up the Antichrist delivery into this world and the subsequent role in the unhappened Apocalypse.

 _Is it raining in Heaven?_ the voice which doesn't sound exactly like the voice of Freddie Mercury but is still familiar inquires from the Bentley's blaupunkt, and Crowley finds himself smashing his foot on the brakes so hard that the Bentley skids on the wet road and with a screech of tires comes to a decidedly not smooth stop in the middle of the lane a few long seconds later. With a honking blast, a car rushes past the Bentley, but Crowley barely notices it, unaware of the fact that he's very nearly escaped a discorporation in a car accident.

With his hands still clutching the steering wheel, clutching it so hard that his knuckles grow white, Crowley simply sits there, rigid, staring right in front of himself through the rain-stained windshield, his heart hammering in his chest and echoing in his ears with heavy, sickening thuds. His breathing is fast and ragged, and, suddenly, his eyes are stinging, and there is a painful lump in his throat and he starts shaking as the song continues to blast from the dynamics, its awful words seeming to undo him piece by piece, part by part, making it hard to see anything and hard to breathe and hard to _exist_.

"Ssstop!" Crowley hisses, screwing his eyes shut behind his sunglasses. The song, predictably, does not. They never do. "Stop it, you bastard!!!" Crowley yells. "Stop it, stop it, _SSSTOPIT_!!!"

The song would not, still, so Crowley smashes his hand against the blaupunkt, hard enough to make it go numb from the impact.

"Stop it, I'm telling you!" he all but shrieks and this time bangs his fists against the steering wheel, repeatedly. "Oh for fuck's sake, give it up, have some mercy!"

And then, in a heartbeat, all his anger is as if drained out of him, leaving him emptier still, hollow and fragile, and he can't either yell or fight anymore. His scrupulously built self-control crumbling to pieces, Crowley pushes his sunglasses up into his hair, presses his stinging palms to his stinging eyes and, for the first time in centuries – perhaps, in millennia – weeps as the yet unwritten tune of some of Queen's songs is playing quietly in the background, overlapping the steady drumroll of the rain on the roof of the Bentley.

"Oh, _please_ ," Crowley mutters, sniffing and gasping for air, "please, won't you just shut up?"

But the Bentley does not, and the demon cries.

 

*******

 

It happened on the very next day after the Apocalypse, which, thankfully, in its turn had failed to happen, although Crowley's euphoria about that matter was destined to be short-lived.

The whole Armageddon business was a close call, and during the final hours before it was to finally take place, he found himself more overwhelmed that he'd prefer to be by quite a few insights and revelations. It commenced with the discovery that it was the wrong child he and Aziraphale had been trying to raise all those long eleven years prior to the end of the world and proceeded with the nasty encounter with the Dukes of Hell and Holy water and the sheer horror of actually murdering one of them, and progressed with the burning bookshop and Beelzebub and then Satan himself making an appearance at the Lower Tadfield airbase. And then there was also one more thing, perhaps much less dramatic in the great scheme of things, but equally devastating – perhaps even more so – for Crowley, Aziraphale saying that he just couldn't explain the feeling of love that was permeating the place the young Antichrist resided in, not to _him_ , of all people.

 

The thing was, obviously, Crowley didn't want the earth to cease to exist. First, it was simply too full of all sorts of amazing, inexplicable, glorious things, starting with the daffodils which bloomed every spring in the St. James's to the arrogant ducks which dwelt there to the colour the sky sometimes acquired during a particularly picturesque sunset to good wine to silly sitcoms to all the technological breakthroughs to the humanity itself, which was, as Aziraphale liked to put it, simply ineffable.

For another thing, there were Things, _his_ things, things he held dear. Things – and Aziraphale would most certainly have been surprised by it, bearing in mind his remark on their way to Tadfield – Crowley _loved_ , against all odds and against better judgement. There was the Bentley, for starters, their century-long love affair only growing more passionate as years went by. Granted, the Bentley had an irritating taste in music and a wayward habit of ignoring all Crowley's attempts to change the song to something other than Queen, but had there ever been a love affair without just a pinch of controversy? The Bentley could be a proper bastard, and Crowley loved that.

Then there was also his makeshift greenhouse, full of all kinds of plants eager to be terrorised. Just like with the Bentley, Crowley tended to put a show of being all exasperated by their always trying not hard enough to be the best, the most flourishing, the most fragrant garden; yet, in truth, he did know his green pets were in fact doing their best, and that his greenhouse was immaculate. It evoked a poignantly nostalgic memory of the Garden, and Crowley loved that, too.

There were Crowley's classy suits and his snakeskin shoes; there were slick sunglasses and the entire James Bond attitude he loved to maintain; there was his flat in Mayfair with that fluffy white carpet and comfy white leather sofa; there were dinners at the Ritz and long walks in St. James's and animated debates and merry drunken nights and the nightingale singing at the Berkeley Square. He'd be a hypocrite if he said he didn't love those.

And that led Crowley to something – _someone_ – who was above all that, above the Bentley and the domestic greenhouse and all the rest. It led to someone who, ironically, didn't believe, didn't even entertain a single thought, that Crowley was capable of merely detecting love, let alone actually being capable of feeling it. The blame wasn't perhaps all Aziraphale's, however – in this particular case, Crowley was a liar; had been one for millennia on end, and would possibly have remained one for equally long, pretending, running and hiding and refusing to acknowledge the presence of the elephant in the room, hadn't it been for that blessed, eye-opening, failed, Apocalypse.

In the face of it, as it was, it seemed like there wasn't anywhere Crowley could actually run to. All cards were on the table and the world as they knew it could be living through its final days, so what was the point in avoiding the truth, keeping appearances and pretending to be what he wasn't, or rather, pretending _not_ to be what he really was? And he was, very simply put, ridiculously in love.

Aziraphale's words stung, surprisingly deep, because, really, shouldn't he know better? He was an angel, for Someone's sake! Shouldn't he know better after all those years, centuries, millennia, spent side by side with Crowley; sharing news, sharing views, sharing wine, food, rooms, beds, lives? Shouldn't he be able to sense it, somehow? And wasn't it paradoxical, really, how Aziraphale implied that the concept of love wouldn't be understood by Crowley while failing to perceive the very same feeling, directed at his own self, from the being he should know inside-out?

Yet, painful as Aziraphale's attitude was, it didn't actually make Crowley despair. Quite the opposite, in fact, with the prospects of the Armageddon looming on the horizon, which in its turn brought a fairly high possibility of everything being over very soon, it gave the demon the courage and determination he'd lacked for ages. And indeed, what was there to lose? If the end was really coming, his ability to love wouldn't mean in the slightest; and if, after all, it could be averted, then, hey, he would at the very least be able to rub that precious, arrogant divine bastard's nose in it.

So, standing there on the cracked tarmac of the Lower Tadfield airbase, with that stupid tire iron in one hand and Aziraphale's warm, soft hand in his other, Crowley gladly abandoned all his pretences, consciously and willingly, because, he suddenly understood, free will wasn't something only humans were allowed to have.

If they made it, he resolved, if they really could avert the entire cosmic clusterfuck, it would be one of the first things Aziraphale would hear from him. That he bloody well knew what that atmosphere in Tadfield the angel had been on about was; that he was capable of sensing it and understanding it and feeling it; that he knew love and could love and that he, as a matter of fact, _did_ love, and never mind the Bentley and the greenhouse and the bloody ducks. He loved Aziraphale, and he was determined to let the angel know about it once – and if – this nuisance of an Armageddon was over.

And, against all odds, they prevailed. And then there was some nervous laughter, and the ride back home in the strange Jeep for a change listening to something other than Queen, and a mostly silent, somewhat bewildered, late dinner they shared in Crowley's flat, and the first night of the rest of their lives which Crowley spent sleeping as a log on his white coach, inhumanly drunk, and which Aziraphale spent in Crowley's bed, equally drunk. And then there was the first morning of the rest of their lives, a nice sunny Sunday just slightly obscured by the residue of the hangover, the discovery of the bookshop, as good as new, in its legitimate place in Soho, and of the Bentley, big as life and without as much as a scratch on it; and a subsequent walk in St. James's and a dinner at the Ritz; and during none of those did Crowley say all he had resolved to say to Aziraphale.

This time, however, the hesitation wasn't at all due to his cowardice or fear or his ever-present paranoia or denial. No, it was the realisation that they had been granted a second chance, an opportunity to set everything right, and the sole reason why Crowley was delaying the conversation with the angel was that, for once in a lifetime, he wanted to do it _right_. He'd given it much thought, not doubting or questioning or eluding the truth, but rather looking for the right way to do it. And anyway, it seemed they had all the time in the world now, and even if that wasn't one hundred percent certain, then they at least should have _a while_ ahead of them anyway. No one started an Apocalypse-take-two just mere days after the first one, right?

 

*******

 

Presently, sitting in the Bentley with his face buried in his hands and with a seemingly inextinguishable stream of tears running down his cheeks, feeling acutely lonely, abandoned and miserable, more lovelorn than he has ever felt in his entire existence, Crowley curses himself for being that inexplicably, stupidly, absurdly self-assured. _All the time in the world, my arse._

The rain continues to pour outside, relentlessly, secluding the Bentley and its owner in their shared grief and the soft tune playing in the background, gentle and sweet and sorrowful.

 _Crying for nothing_ , the voice sings, years before the song itself is written. _Crying for no one, no one but you._

 

*******

 

It all went to hell in a handbasket on that Sunday evening.

They had an especially delightful dinner that night, even by the Ritz standards, discussing the latest events, again, because, hell, one did not simply get over the unhappened Apocalypse in a matter of one day. And then Aziraphale, a bit mellow and nostalgic from the Champagne they had been nursing, said something, something which Crowley thought to be utterly absurd, about that even if the end of the world had commenced anyway, despite their interference, he would have been glad for it to end that way.

"What do you mean?" Crowley inquired, one eyebrow raised. "You'd have been glad to be annihilated on the spot by Satan himself? I wouldn't call it my idea of cool, angel."

Aziraphale smiled at him fondly, and his impossibly blue, impossibly ancient eyes, which this evening suddenly seemed younger, livelier somehow, radiated warmth and mirth. "I mean that if the world really had had to end yesterday, I'd have been glad to go with _you_ , Satan or no Satan."

"That's sappy, angel, even by Heavenly standards," Crowley smirked, but it didn't come out as sarcastic as it normally did, nor did Crowley particularly intended for it to be so. He'd been playing this game for way too long and this failed Apocalypse had turned out to be a rather liberating experience. What Aziraphale had claimed didn't really feel all that sappy to him, not anymore, because he actually felt the same.

"I'm an angel," Aziraphale countered with a vague shrug of one shoulder, as if it explained everything, then gave the demon a dazzling smile and stole yet another piece of his angel cake.

Crowley huffed, and this time the sound came out affectionate, shook his head and pushed his dessert towards the angel.

"Why do I even bother to keep it on my side of the table when it ends up on yours every time anyway?" he muttered, and the fond notes in his voice made the angel's smile grow even warmer, which, in its turn gave him certain hope that, perhaps, this unApocalypse had turned out to be an eye-opening experience not only for him, but perhaps for Aziraphale, too.

 

They left the Ritz not long after. It was summer, it was Sunday, and the weather was remarkable. The sun graced the earth with its evening radiance, and outside, there were still lots of people walking around as if now, on some subconscious level, they wanted to make up for all the occasions when they'd neglected this wonderful world Before, capital letter intended; and those two things were what Crowley would later blame for what happened next. The bloody weather and the bloody people around, too many of them at this time of day. And the angel's sheer stupidity, of course.

First, on their way to the Bentley, Crowley realised that he'd left his sunglasses inside, and, for some unfathomable reason, instead of manifesting them back right onto the bridge of his pointy nose, he decided to go back and fetch them in person.

"Go right ahead to the Bentley, angel, I'll be right back," he told Aziraphale, relishing the way the word rolled off his tongue now that he actually did mean it more as an endearment rather than merely stating what Aziraphale really was.

Aziraphale nodded consent, and Crowley returned back inside the restaurant, did indeed find his glasses sitting peacefully on the table, took them and left the waiter an extra tip in their place on the spur of the moment just because, hell, he did feel fine. It couldn't have taken him more than a couple of minutes to accomplish the entire trip, yet even that little was enough to change the course of the events from highly promising to utterly devastating.

As Crowley walked through the door of the Ritz, there was a screech of tires, somebody's shriek and a bump, all of them happening almost simultaneously, and then everything was silent again. It sounded so weirdly, inexplicably, insignificant that Crowley didn't pay the entire thing much attention, merely registering the noise somewhere at the back of his mind as he rounded the corner… and that was when everything suddenly went straight to hell.

Later, he wouldn't be quite able to comprehend how what had taken place could have possibly happened so fast yet so quietly. As he rounded the corner, everything had already changed. There was a car standing in the middle of the road, its bonnet dented. In front of it there were a group of people gathered around something – _someone_ , Crowley thought with a totally irrational pang of utter terror. Across the road, there was a child of about five sitting on the pavement with his knees scraped bloody and wailing like it was end of the world all over again.

"What the…" Crowley muttered, for some reason overwhelmed by the feeling of worry, and headed towards the Bentley. "Angel," he called, "what on Earth has just happened--"

But Aziraphale wasn't near the car, and nor was he inside. _Right_ , Crowley thought, that sinking feeling in his stomach growing stronger still, _right, that's the bloody angel for you, must be already helping out there to whomever--_

And then everything was happening both too fast and too slowly, events captured in time as if in slow motion but rushing past too quickly for Crowley to be able to comprehend them.

Aziraphale lying there on the ground almost completely under the car, surrounded by people fussing around him. Himself, pushing them aside and kneeling beside the angel, ridiculously aware, of all things, of the feeling of hard tarmac against his knees. Taking Aziraphale's hand and _knowing_ , knowing even before he did that, that it was too late, that it wasn't the angel anymore, that it was just his stupid lifeless corporation. Somebody touching him on the shoulder, saying something to him, urgently, something about that child, something about pushing and saving and the driver not managing to stop. Wailing of sirens of the ambulance. Somebody touching him on the shoulder again, this time just as gently as before but with much more authority, beckoning him to let go of Aziraphale's hand, leading him away, saying they were sorry…

 

When Crowley more or less came to his senses, he was in the bookshop. He couldn't remember how he'd got there in the first place, but that hardly mattered when one had a car that was prone to making its own decisions. He was sitting on the coach opposite the counter Aziraphale normally sat at, feeling nauseated, confused, furious, scared and forlorn all rolled in one. He didn't have his blasted glasses on him, that much he knew. Must have dropped them back there near the Ritz. Or perhaps had left them in the Bentley. He'd have to go check. Later, that was. Not now.

Right now, Crowley felt that if he got up he'd be likely to stumble and fall right back. His hands were shaking, too. His head was throbbing. His heart was hammering in his chest. And there was also a gnawing fear filling that sucking void in his chest, the sense of inevitability, some impending doom.

 _"You blasted feathered idiot_ ," Crowley murmured to himself, voice as unsteady as his hands. _"You insufferable ineffable moron. Why did you have to…"_

He couldn't finish the question as his voice finally betrayed him.

The thing was, he couldn't quite comprehend how the fuck Aziraphale had even managed to end up under the wheels of that car. Well, no, the order of events was pretty obvious – the idiot had obviously done that to save the child, divine mercy my arse, that, at least, was understandable enough. What was beyond Crowley, though, was why on earth he had necessarily had to do it _that_ way, getting himself killed in the process. Why couldn't he simply perform a small miracle and… blessit, there were so many various options, change the trajectory of the car – something Aziraphale had mastered to perfection having been Crowley's passenger for a good century – change the bloody layout of the street, push that kiddo out of the car's way by means of magic, make him fucking levitate, anything would have been better than actually killing himself.

But even that wouldn't have been all that awful, though, had it happened in the pre-Apocalypse days. Discorporations were anything but pleasant, but, hey, they did tend to occur from time to time, it was simply a matter of probability. Normally, there would really be nothing to worry about. Getting a new body required some bureaucratic fuss and a number of letters of explanation, and perhaps an earful from their bosses, but ultimately, it didn't tend to take longer that a few days, a week at most in case there really was much explaining to be done. Yet _now_ couldn't really be referred to as _normally_ anymore, not with that blasted Armageddon business just a day in the past and Aziraphale's direct role in actually preventing the entire atrocity. Getting himself killed _now_ was perhaps the dumbest thing Aziraphale had ever committed over the course of the six millennia he'd spent on this blasted planet, and perhaps the time Before could be taken into account just as well.

The young Antichrist had indeed set many things right after the world had failed to cease to exist, merely hiccupping instead of choking to death, and perhaps his and Aziraphale's flop – or success, it depended on the side you wanted to take – could be overlooked by their superiors. They hadn't heard from either side yet, and after a few lengthy discussions they'd sort of reached the conclusion that the probability was high that this time, they'd let it slip their attention altogether.

On the other hand, with Adam's orders not to mess with the humanity, both of them had ended up virtually unemployed, which implied that their presence here on earth wasn't quite as necessary as it had been during the previous six millennia. They might be allowed to stay, they reckoned, as, having spent ages rubbing shoulders with humans, both of them had transformed into total aliens in their respective realms. Or they might not, and that was what bothered Crowley most of all. Even without Aziraphale's idiotic discorporation, he might still have been recalled back to Heaven – as well as Crowley could possibly be ordered to return to Hell – but now that the angel had lost his human body… even if his bosses did not hold him responsible for the Apocalyptic failure, even if they had no intention of punishing him for that, would they even bother to assign him a new corporation? What would be the point now that his presence on earth wasn't a necessity? They had every reason to keep him Up There, especially now that Aziraphale had been so bloody considerate as to pay a personal visit.

With a groan, Crowley closed his eyes and reclined against the back of the coach. He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to believe this could possibly be the most likely prospect. He didn't want to think that the last thing he had ever said to the angel was that stupid _'I'll be right back.'_ He didn't want to think about everything he hadn't had time to say to Aziraphale. He didn't want to believe that it might have been the last time he'd ever see the angel. _His_ angel. He didn't want to believe he'd lost it all just when it had finally started to seem possible.

"Aziraphale," Crowley muttered, his voice sounding weary and listless in the abnormal stillness of the empty bookshop. "Angel. Please come back."

Predictably enough, silence was the only answer he got.

 

Crowley spent the next week literally closeted in the bookshop, occupied with virtually nothing but sitting on the sofa and staring into space. He could go through some of the books – after all, over time Aziraphale had acquired an enviable collection of rare and precious editions – but that would feel like he was indeed saying goodbye to the angel, so Crowley just sat there and waited. Unwilling to consider the prospect of Aziraphale not coming back even in theory, he gave him a week. That would be enough to assign him a new corporation – more than enough, actually, but, let's say his superiors demanded a full report of the recent events and perhaps quite a few explanations of his actions. One week, Crowley thought, and then, if the angel did not return… but he did not want to think about that.

When one and a half weeks had passed, and the bookshop was still devoid of any celestial presence, Crowley got up from the tattered sofa and headed for the door, a little unsteadily from his long vigil. No, he still refused to believe Aziraphale was gone for good. They couldn't keep him up there while his adversary still roamed the earth freely, that simply wasn't sensible, right? They'd been stationed here on this planet in the long-foregone days specifically for the purpose of thwarting the other's plan, and now Crowley – the inventor of the original sin, if he might be so bold as to remind you – had the earth all to himself. No, that wouldn't do. If he caused some trouble, Crowley reasoned, they'd be bound to send the angel back to hinder demonic activity, even if perhaps for just a while. All he needed was to see Aziraphale, just a while would do to tell him all he wanted to tell him, and then they could possibly work out a plan together.

So he ventured out and did some mischief despite the Antichrist's prohibition to engage in that kind of thing. Never mind Adam for the time being, Hell had never been able to tell which of humanity's atrocities were provoked by Crowley and which were invented by themselves, so the odds were – at least he dearly wished to hope so – that the boy might miss it this time around just as well. It wasn't the elaborate kind he'd always preferred but rather large-scale, mass-market, sort of trouble for his purpose wasn't to do a bad job well, but merely to attract the attention of anyone from Upstairs, a metaphorical waving of a red flag saying that he, a very much evil and demonic presence, was still in business. They couldn't allow humanity to be affected by his wiles, right, it wouldn't be… wouldn't be ineffable?

Yet two more weeks passed, and there was still nothing despite Crowley's damnedest attempts at wiling around. In the bookshop, more dust had gathered on the counter and the bookshelves. Crowley still returned there every single night, and more and more often he found himself wandering around it, looking at the book spines, brushing the dust off some of them, arranging Aziraphale's stationary on his desk.

After a month, he gave up on messing with humans. It was proving to be a fruitless task as the folks from the Upstairs, improbable as it was, must have indeed lost all interest in their little pets on this little blue planet. Instead, Crowley gathered some courage – or perhaps mere insanity – drove to Tadfield, found the school the Antichrist attended and resorted to the last thing he could come up with – asking Adam to somehow get Aziraphale back to earth. If the boy could restore the burnt to the ground bookshop and breathe the life back into the Bentley, then he surely could do something about this mess. Even simple providing some information on what was going on would already be welcome.

Asking Satan's son for help – and the mere notion sounded paradoxical, _Satan_ and _help_ in one sentence, come on – felt nothing short of suicidal, perhaps even more suicidal than trying to avert the bloody Apocalypse, but by then Crowley had grown so desperate he didn't give much damn. Anything was better than _this_ , this pointless existence in the world which was devoid of any presence of love. If Adam could read his mind, if he could look into his very soul – very well, then Crowley perhaps wouldn't even have to explain anything to him. If anything, he was sure the boy had already done just that back when he'd addressed him right after the end of the world hadn't happened and had seen everything Crowley was and everything Crowley wanted to be. As to his power, well, he'd be a hypocrite if he said he wasn't terrified of it, but all the terror in the world couldn't quite compare to the terror of losing Aziraphale forever now that he'd just been given the taste of hope.

"I think you sorta didn't quite understand me back then," Adam told him, not unkindly, as they walked towards the Antichrist's house. "I told you and the other one that there shouldn't be any messing around anymore, and I meant that about you as well as about myself. I'm not messin' with anything these days, well, maybe except the maths homework, that one is impossible without messing it up."

"But that's… that's about people, and we're…" Crowley trailed off, feeling desperate and hopelessly inadequate. He, a demon, was all but pleading an eleven-year-old son of Lucifer to return to earth a celestial being from Heaven. Something was seriously off about this world.

"I'm sorry," Adam said simply, and then brightened a little. "But my Ma says you should never lose hope, you know."

Crowley huffed and nodded, ruefully. "Yeah," he said and gave the boy a weary smile. "Losing it twice would perhaps be taking it too far."

All of a sudden, he wasn't terrified of the Antichrist, not anymore. Adam was just your ordinary small-town boy now, more powerful than most of the entities in both realms, that was true, but one who was willing to give it up in favour of an ordinary human life. And anyway, bringing Aziraphale back to earth was perhaps beyond his abilities even if he did have an inclination to help.

 

The following couple of weeks saw Crowley in various stages of despair as there still was no sign either of Aziraphale, or any other Heavenly presence. During one of his tours of the bookshop, Crowley came across Aziraphale's collection of books containing various spells, which gave him another idea which bordered insanity, but Crowley decided that insanity was something he'd have to deal with anyway if he didn't manage to find a way to get Aziraphale back to earth. He found a few spells which were supposed to initiate the line of communication with Up There, but even though he made sure he followed the instructions closely, nothing happened. He didn't know if it was his demonic nature that prevented him from summoning anyone form the Upstairs or whether the line had simply been severed due to the absence of Heaven's agents on earth, the outcome was the same – there was nothing, only the silence of the dusty, empty bookshop around.

 

*******

 

The day the Bentley decides to play Queen's song that is yet to be written, thus making Crowley finally have a breakdown, marks the end of the second month since Aziraphale was gone. He believes he's done all he possibly could to, if not return Aziraphale back on earth, then at least get through to him, and every single attempt has failed.

In just two months the demon has lost more weight than anyone would deem possible, considering his naturally lanky build, which has left him but a mere shadow of himself, a tall figure dressed in an expensive black suit that doesn't fit him quite as perfectly as it used to. There are dark circles beneath his serpentine eyes and, complemented by his now even more prominent cheekbones and constantly ruffled hair, they give him a sick, emaciated, look. His hands tremble ever so lightly all the time, and all he's been feeling like doing lately is sleep. He drinks, too, more and more each evening in a vain attempt to forget himself, to find if not peace, then at least simple oblivion, and now, more often than not, he does nothing to miracle his hangovers away. It's way more challenging to focus on reality when one's head is threatening to split in half, so hangovers are a welcome distraction.

Presently, when that awful song finally ends, none other follows as the Bentley remains unusually silent, and Crowley can't quite decide whether it is a blessing or a curse. He stays as he is for a while longer – perhaps for only a few minutes, maybe for hours, he couldn't tell – with his face buried into his hands until the flow of tears finally subsides. The rain does not, though, filling the inside of the car with its permeating, droning hum. After a while, Crowley wipes his red-rimmed, blood-shot, swollen eyes and drives back to London.

In the bookshop, he goes upstairs where Aziraphale has an attic bedroom equipped, which over the past several centuries has mainly been frequented by Crowley himself, on occasions when he was too drunk or too distraught or too haunted by particularly nasty kind of nightmares to go back to Mayfair. It is a tiny room, old-fashioned but weirdly cosy, with the sort of furniture that has long become obsolete, sturdy and made of solid oak instead of the modern plastic, glass and laminated wood, with the walls still having wallpaper with flower print on it, with curtains heavy and thick. The only modern thing in the entire room is the orthopaedic mattress Crowley changed a few years prior, stating that he was not having any bloody backache because of Aziraphale's atrocity of a bed.

Presently, with a flick of Crowley's wrist, the bed linens change themselves into fresh ones, plain cotton unlike the fancy silken and satin sets he has back in Mayfair. Cotton is what Aziraphale would have chosen, irritatingly enough, Crowley muses with a small, sorrowful smile, and feels a sting in his eyes again. He blinks a few times, fast, and it is gone. It is infuriating, it wouldn't do for a demon to behave this way. He has to keep the appearance, right? Even though he doesn't know in front of whom anymore.

Moving as if in a dream, Crowley gets undressed to his underwear and then crawls under the blanket, the familiar feeling of the heavy duvet above him evoking a bittersweet memory of some other times, happier times filled with comfort and warmth and the eternal angelic presence, soothing and reassuring. They hurt, those recollections, but Crowley lets them wash over him, taking him along on a journey into the six millennia of shared history, because they are the only thing he has which connects him to the angel. Them, and this dusty bookshop.

Outside, it is still pouring relentlessly, the drumroll of raindrops against the windowpane and the ledge and the roof a monotonous lullaby, beckoning Crowley to let go of his troubles and surrender to sleep. He does so, willingly enough, but before he drifts into the land of unconsciousness, a half-articulated prayer rolls off his tongue, a desperate plea of sorts, to the Father Up Above, the Father he renounced eons ago, begging Him to grant his one single wish, pleading Him to reunite him with the only being he really cares about. Asking Him for Aziraphale but not quite believing his pleas will be heard.

 

*******


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

*******

_It's always a rainy day without you © *_  

*******

 

Time is a funny thing when you get right down to it, Aziraphale reflects distractedly as he descends towards earth. Pristine white wings outstretched, he circles and circles, gradually approaching the home of humanity, and then, as he gets further away from Heaven, the place which has become his own home, London. He's been Upstairs for almost two months – granted, the longest he's ever spent there in one go – but what is a couple of months for a nigh eternal being? Merely a blink of an eye, a fleeting moment even on a human scale. Yet this time it seems like a whole eternity has passed since he could last feel the solid concrete beneath the soles of his shoes.

He shouldn't have ended up in Heaven in the first place. Turning up there after everything that had just happened on earth, the quasi-Apocalypse and all that, was like turning oneself to the police straight after committing a crime. No wonder they had no intention of letting him go back, and that was something Aziraphale simply could not accept. He had urgent things to do down there on earth, and enjoying the rescued world along with his restored bookshop was only one of them.

First things first, before he made an utterly unnecessary show of killing himself, he'd made a resolution to apologise to Crowley for that atrocious remark back in Tadfield, one that implied that the demon wouldn't be able to merely grasp the concept of love. He should have known better, he should have known earlier, it shouldn't have taken an almost Apocalypse for him to be able to _understand,_ he is an angel for goodness sake! And then there are lots of other things he absolutely needs to do, but all of them are in one way or another related to that sudden insight he had while he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Crowley, prepared to confront the rest of the world.

So much more bitter is the disappointment caused by his own sheer stupidity. No, Aziraphale does not regret in the slightest that he saved that poor child's life, that is out of question. What he does regret is the way he did it. Two months after the incident, and he still isn't able to come up with a viable explanation of why he didn't merely resort to a minor miracle to prevent the accident. The only thing he can come up with is that he simply didn't think – didn't have enough time to think – about the consequences, but that is such a profoundly human excuse Aziraphale can only shake his head every time he puts his mind to it.

Now, though, at the very long last, he is on his way back, and it is a miracle in itself he's been allowed to do so, or perhaps – and Crowley would most probably agree with this latter point – it is his sheer wayward stubbornness that has made it possible. Being a bastard does sometimes get you to go places, it seems.

His superiors were a little surprised to encounter him in Heaven that soon – they'd expected, they told him, that given his role in thwarting the Apocalypse, he'd want a bit more time to enjoy earth before he was indeed recalled to Heaven. Unsurprisingly enough, creating a new corporation wasn't their intention now that his presence among humans was not vital. It took Aziraphale lots and lots of letters of explanation of how and why he'd even come up with the idea of disobeying the orders and assisting in averting the prophesied end of the world. Besides, they wanted to know the role the certain demon Crowley played in it, too, and how exactly Aziraphale ended up teaming up with him for the purpose of preventing the Apocalypse, which only made his explanations lengthier and more complicated.

Since they didn't seem particularly upset by the entire thing – more confused than anything, really – Aziraphale decided to stick to the strategy of being truthful and did his best to give them the most thorough account of the events he could possibly come up with. It was highly appreciated but the permission to go back to earth and guard the humans against evil wasn't granted to him no matter how many times Aziraphale requested it.

"Explain your motivations," they repeated again and again, but all they got from Aziraphale was his saying that he had an unfinished business back on earth and that it was a personal matter, and every single time he got the same response that the explanation he provided was not sufficient enough. There could not be any personal matters anymore, his job on earth was finished and he was expected in Heaven. In the end, Aziraphale, desperate to the point of a breaking out of Heaven despite all orders, demanded perhaps the most insolent thing an angel could possibly come up with – an actual audience with the Father himself. Which was, grudgingly, granted as there is virtually no rule forbidding any resident of Heaven from making an appointment with Himself, it's just that very few actually dare to exercise this right. Aziraphale, though, who has spent six millennia alongside creatures prone to wayward behaviour, had absolutely no problem with that.

 

*******

 

God, contrary to popular belief, does not sit on a glorious throne illuminated by radiant rays of light. He does have such throne, of course, and he does occupy it sometimes, but that's mainly for show. In reality, his office is light and spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows adorning the walls, from which a glorious view of the heavenly gardens is revealed. But otherwise, it's just an office all the same, cleverly designed and practical.

The being, fair and beautiful, that was sitting behind the desk when Aziraphale entered watched him with a kind, omniscient smile on his lips, a smile which looked like he knew what Aziraphale was going to ask before he even had time to open his mouth to speak of it, and, of course, that was exactly the case.

"Father," Aziraphale said, in a somewhat breathy voice.

"Speak, child," God beckoned, putting away the paper he had apparently been working with.

"I…" Aziraphale began and then trailed off.

It wasn't as if he had been intending to lie to the Lord, but perhaps not disclosing the entire truth would sum it up if he was hard-pressed to admit it. He wasn't hard-pressed now, but there was a different issue about talking to God face to face – concealing anything was pointless. You didn't even need to put it in words, he already knew the moment he looked you in the eye, perhaps even before that.

"I love him," Aziraphale said instead, rather desperately, unable to tear his gaze away from the radiant, mesmerising, omniscient eyes that were watching him from across the room.

"It's about time, child," Father said evenly.

Despite himself, Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, a motion he had borrowed from Crowley and that wasn't a typical thing for an angel to do, especially not when used during an actual conversation with God. He wasn't even aware he had done that, though. The Lord smiled, rather fondly at that.

"So you've known all along. All of you have," Aziraphale muttered under his breath, more to himself than to God.

"There's a time for everything," Father replied, ineffable as ever. "Go, Aziraphale. You're free to leave whenever you deem necessary. Your place is there on earth, has always been. Just like _his_. Go, and have my blessing."

 

*******

 

So Aziraphale did go, right away, and is now slowly descending from the metaphysical plain on which Heaven lies to the one that is occupied by Earth, feeling delighted and anxious at the same time, giddy and overjoyed, an improbable mixture of feelings for a being of a divine persuasion but one which is all too familiar to virtually any human being who has ever found themselves in love.

It is raining in London, unsurprisingly.

However, Aziraphale finds he's never before been gladder to feel that fine sprinkle on his face, that relentless, annoying drizzle that doesn't quite soak you to the bone right away but rather persistently dampens your entire existence. Manchester has always been more notorious for that kind of thing, Crowley has always told him, indulgently – after all, the city is his demonic lovechild – but London is not far behind as far as insufferable weather conditions are concerned. Bearing that in mind, it's still a bit perplexing how the two of them even managed to end up here in England instead of, say, some Italian province or French riviera or someplace else that bore at least slightly more resemblance to the place they originally came from, especially Crowley with his notorious reptilian dependence on warmth. The thought of the demon brings more giddiness in its wake, and when the soles of Aziraphale's oxfords finally touch the wet pavement accurately in front of his bookshop, he is feeling rather weak in the knees.

Ever since the moment he was given permission to go back, Aziraphale has been determined to head for the demon's place right away as soon as he is back in London. Now, though, it looks like it is the middle of the night here, and the angel suddenly isn't sure whether Crowley would appreciate being woken up this unceremoniously, even if the matter Aziraphale is going to talk to him about is vitally important and can't really be delayed any longer. He's feeling a weird urgency in himself, a mixture of anticipation, affection and paranoia, and, he reflects distractedly as he unlocks the front door – manually because old habits die hard – if this is what humans go through every time they fall in love, well, bugger, the Antichrist was right, their existence is indeed an awfully complicated business.

Once he opens the door of the bookshop, however, his dilemma as to what to do next ceases to be relevant. It's obvious he doesn't need to go to Crowley's in the middle of the night. A mere heartbeat's time is enough for Aziraphale to detect the other's presence in his own bookshop, an aura so familiar he'd stopped really being aware of it until the moment he was suddenly deprived of it, and Crowley's aura is a wonder in its own right, something both dark and light, good and mischief intertwined together into an intricate pattern of sheer beauty that the demon is. A dark star shining brightly solely for Aziraphale to behold, and that thought evokes another burst of raw affection in him.

"My dear?" he asks the dark and empty room, knowing before he gets any sort of reply – or the lack of such in this case – that Crowley must be upstairs.

Carefully, doing his best not to make much noise, Aziraphale goes up the stairs and heads for the bedroom. It is pitch dark inside when the angel opens the door, but his vision is way better than that of most humans, and he could with perfect clarity and yet another pang of tenderness detect the softly snuffling bundle of blanket, sprawled across the bed in a rather intricate position.

The intensity of the affection rising inside of him takes Aziraphale by surprise. While he was kept in Heaven, he was missing Crowley awfully, but it seems that only upon finally having the chance to see him in person does he understand just what extent of _awfully_ it really is. The feeling awakening in him is by no means unfamiliar – he is an angel, he knows what love is, of course, he has loved Crowley for longer than he can perhaps even imagine, unconsciously – but now, here, in his own bookshop, in this dark little bedroom, watching Crowley sleep, finally being able to behold him after their unintended separation, the feeling is so powerful and so all-encompassing that all Aziraphale can do is simply stand there in the doorway for a while, unable to get over that initial fit of raw emotion.

And there is more to it than mere intensity of the feeling. There is also understanding, sudden and overwhelming, triggered by encountering Crowley here, of all places, dozing off in his, Aziraphale's bed, while wrapped into that tartan plaid the demon normally abhorred with passion – or, perhaps, only pretended to do so, after all. Perhaps, the angel muses as he finally enters the room and all but tip-toes towards the bed, he isn't the one who has been missing the other most terribly. After all, Aziraphale was determined to come back to earth, the Above's orders be damned, at whatever cost. He knew during the entire course of those excruciatingly long two months that he was bound to come back, sooner or later. Crowley, on the other hand…

As carefully as he can manage, Aziraphale settles down onto the edge of the fancy orthopaedic mattress, for the time being doing nothing else but watching his demon in his sleep. Crowley, on the other hand, Aziraphale reflects, knew – _still_ knows – nothing of that sort. It is only now that he's encountered the demon in what he'd have thought of as the most unlikely place of all, in his own bookshop, sleeping in that sorry excuse for a bed instead of his luxurious king-size monster with silk sheets in Mayfair, that he realises that the circumstances at which they parted were less than promising. From Crowley's perspective, it must look like that accident was the last time they'd ever see each other, what with his utterly unnecessary discorporation – and that sort of death wasn't a particularly nice way to go, Aziraphale ponders remembering the details and wincing despite himself – and their virtually jobless position after the Apocalypse. Aziraphale tries to imagine what he would feel like had he been put in Crowley's shoes, and…

"Oh my dear…" he murmurs, stunned. "I'm such an idiot."

Gently, he lets his fingertips caress the demon's cheek. The skin beneath his hand is lukewarm, and it makes him suddenly remember just on how many occasions – their number and frequency increasing dramatically with the course of time since the moment the Arrangement came into existence – Crowley has ended up curled up, wrapped up, snuggled up against him as he persistently fell asleep on him over and over again. Wistfully, Aziraphale wishes he'd been able to interpret it earlier, Crowley's longing for physical warmth and also for something else entirely which Aziraphale still cannot forgive himself for missing out.

Meanwhile, the demon's eyelids twitch, his long dark eyelashes fluttering as his eyes first open, then close, then open again and peer right at Aziraphale. Crowley smiles a drowsy, crooked, smile, then lets his eyelids fall shut once more.

"Now that's a bloody disturbing sort of dream," he mutters and buries his face into the pillow.

Aziraphale, slightly taken aback by such reaction, blinks a few times, and caresses Crowley's sharp cheekbone with his thumb, almost reverently so. He's had plenty of opportunities to behold the demon at various stages of sleep, drowsiness, drunkenness and even death over the course of the six millennia they've been acquainted with each other, but now is something special, something different, something which makes Aziraphale simply incapable of tearing his adoring gaze off Crowley's face, so open and so tranquil and so inexplicably fragile and beautiful with his dark tousled hair and dark eyebrows and dark long eyelashes and his fair skin and that pointy nose of his he loves so much to stick into something which doesn't concern him and those good cheekbones and that tempting curve of his lips.

"But I'm not a dream, my boy," he says softly. "I'm right here."

At that, Crowley's serpentine eyes shoot wide open and stare right at Aziraphale yet again, with a much less sleepy and way more astounded, almost panicked, expression in them.

"You _what_ …" he whispers, and then, in the blink of an eye, he is suddenly sitting, the tartan atrocity as he is apt to call it thrown aside and with his now huge eyes trained on Aziraphale.

"I…" Aziraphale starts, not even sure of what is going to leave his mouth next, but he's not allowed to articulate whatever it is as in another heartbeat he has an armful of an agile, lanky, warm and so incredibly tangibly solid demon clinging to him for dear life.

 _The flash bastard, indeed_ , Aziraphale reflects a bit hazily, totally thrown off balance by the sheer physicality of it all. Back in heaven, the physical aspect isn't all that important, but here, on this wonderful planet, everything has its weight and its sense and its smell and texture, and all of those are overwhelmingly intense; the weight and warmth of Crowley's lean body against his own – and oh dear, there is such an expanse of skin beneath Aziraphale's palms, all those sinewy muscles twitching and protruding bones shifting; the smell of Crowley's hair and his skin, a mixture of fragrances of his offensively expensive perfume, equally expensive shampoo and the very one of his skin, something leathery and bitter and tempting; the warm moisture of Crowley's breath against the side of his neck, the feeling of Crowley's parted lips against the same spot; the intensity with which Crowley's arms snake around his shoulders, the ticklish touch of the demon's dishevelled hair against his face…

"You smell of rain," Crowley mumbles, voice still hoarse from sleep, words muffled against the angel's throat, a ghost of warm breath making the latter shiver despite himself. "Was it really raining in heaven?"

"It's raining in London," Aziraphale murmurs and takes a new hold on the demon, bringing him just a tad closer, and all of a sudden, even that isn't enough as he is able to experience – perceive on some intuitive level only divine beings possess – just what it has been like for Crowley these past months, the sheer ever-present, gnawing, pain of it, raw and primitive in its intensity.

As if being capable of reading his thoughts, Crowley mutters against his throat, voice oddly clipped, "You bastard." Aziraphale feels him shake his head again, and, simultaneously, the demon's hands curling into fists against his back. "You blithering idiot."

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale whispers, lips forming not quite the words he really wants to say.

"Why the bleeding hell did you have to do it that way, angel?" Hands crumbling Aziraphale's sweater, voice sounding treacherously raw.

 _'I don't know,'_ Aziraphale wants to say, _'I had to_ ,' and, _'I didn't have time to think'_ , but none of those matter right now, so, instead, he holds the demon just a little more tightly, with every single inch of his body feeling the eager way Crowley clings to him, marvelling at this display of affection, so open and sincere; but then again, maybe it isn't all that surprising, it really shouldn't be surprising, it is surprising only because Crowley is right, Aziraphale _is_ a blithering idiot. There has been plenty of such affection shown all along, it is just that he has always been too preposterous to see it.

"I missed you," he whispers instead, words muffled into the top of Crowley's messy head.

For a while, there is no reply whatsoever, and it seems like the demon has even stopped breathing, momentarily making Aziraphale apprehensive that he might have taken it a bit too far too soon, after all, interpreting something wrong all over again, but then Crowley gradually relaxes in his arms, all but melting into his embrace, a breath, long and shaky, brushing past Aziraphale's collarbone, soft, slightly moist lips closing on it in not quite a kiss, not yet. He hears Crowley swallow, and for some reason the sound seems awfully intimate. Up until now, he has never thought that pleasure could be this close to pain, but it is turning out it can, it is, and it is making his heart ache in his chest, but oh Lord, it is a such a pleasant ache.

"I thought it was over, angel," Crowley whispers so quietly that Aziraphale more feels his words on his skin rather than actually perceives them with his ears. "I thought I'd never see you, I thought they'd keep you up there because there was no point in letting you go back, I thought I was hopelessly late," the demon keeps whispering, and his lips brush that sensitive spot on Aziraphale's throat again and again, and he feels his heart pick up its pace, and there's that wonderful, fuzzy feeling in his stomach, making his breath hitch just slightly. He feels his cheeks grow pleasantly warm and instinctively cocks his head just so Crowley could have a bit more access to his neck.

"It's not, nothing's over, my dear, my dearest, it's only the beginning." Every word, every endearment followed by a stroke of his hands over Crowley's distractingly bare skin. "I'm truly, awfully sorry, Crowley, and I think I owe you one too many of them, for leaving you here like that, for leaving you before the Apocalypse, too, for not knowing earlier, for being so atrociously, arrogantly ignorant back there in Tadfield, for assuming you couldn't…" Aziraphale shakes his head at this useless stream of words which mean nothing at all, convey nothing of what he needs to tell Crowley. " _I love you_ ," he says softly, at last. "I'm sorry it took me an almost end of the world to realise that, you're right, I _am_ a blithering idiot, but I love you. I couldn't even imagine it would be… that it would hurt you so much, otherwise…"

"Told you, you're a bastard," Crowley interrupts him, sounding wondrously fond and just a little shaken, and, with a sigh, rests his cheek on Aziraphale's shoulder. "Frankly, I thought it'd be happening in slightly different circumstances, if it ever happened at all, that is, with me wearing, you know, somewhat classier than a pair of boxers and perhaps wining and dining you instead of..." he trails off and huffs. "I guess it makes me a pretty lousy demon, but who gives a damn. I do love you too, angel."

"Oh Crowley…" Aziraphale murmurs, closing his eyes against a fit of something bordering vertigo, because all of this, all that is happening, is so improbable, but so magnificently real; Crowley cradled in his arms, all warm and sleepy and so affectionate, is real. "For how long?"

"Long," the demon replies, and Aziraphale can literally feel his smile against his skin. "I made up my mind to tell you right after that nuisance of an Apocalypse, but I never even had the chance as… that was… angel, seriously, that was the dumbest thing you've ever done, and the timing couldn't have been more wrong, too."

"Well, there might have been some point in it, after all," Aziraphale says very quietly and feels Crowley shift his position so that he could give him a curious glance.

"And that might have been?" the demon prompts.

"We have Father's blessing."

The amber eyes open wide, the slit pupils dilating in unmistakable surprise. Probably shock. Crowley stares. And stares. And then stares some more.

"We _what_?" he finally asks, hoarsely.

Aziraphale actually can't help but smile at Crowley's profound awe. "The thing is, they really had no intention of letting me go back to earth, what with Adam's orders to stop interfering, deeming it unnecessary, and I, in turn, had absolutely no intention of staying in Heaven for the rest of my days. So I reckoned that the only other option I has except simply breaking out of there was to demand an audience with Him."

Crowley groans softly. "And you got it, I presume."

"Of course, I did."

"Of course, you did," the demon echoes. "Knowing you, I'd be surprised if you didn't."

"That's beside the point, Crowley," Aziraphale smiles. "Anyway, He does know."

In his arms, the demon shivers lightly.

"Aziraphale," he whispers faintly, sounding as if he was on the verge of a small breakdown.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Just shut up, angel, please, for someone's sssake, I'm not sure I'm ready for that sort of conversation, not now, I've just spent two awful months that were worse than the entire fucking fourteenth century being, of all things a demon can be, _lovelorn_ and thinking I'd never see you again, and now you're suddenly here telling me He knows, I'm not even sure _this_ isn't a dream, that'sss—"

"Crowley…" Aziraphale interrupts this jumbled, hissing, almost hysterical monologue before Crowley's able to work himself up to a state of something bordering panic. He can feel how madly the demon's heart is hammering in his chest, every single thud reverberating through his ribcage. "It's not a dream, it's all right, all's all right now."

Gently, he slides his fingers behind Crowley's ear, caressing his cheekbone with his thumb and beckoning him to look up, and when Crowley does, beautiful amber eyes opening for just a while to give Aziraphale a partly anxious, partly anticipating glance and then closing again, the angel leans in, doing something he should have done long ago, pressing his lips to the demon's slightly parted ones, kissing him, hesitantly at first, more confidently and thoroughly once he feels the eager response.

"Not bad for an angel," Crowley mutters into his mouth when the latter pulls back to catch his breath, so close that his lips still brush Aziraphale's, soft and wet and so wonderfully tempting. Miraculously, there's no trace of panic present in the demon's hushed voice anymore, which is good. _Back to the familiar territory, apparently_ , Aziraphale reflects somewhere at the back of his consciousness.

"I believe I have a few more tricks up my sleeve," he replies, a little breathlessly, and plants another kiss, this time a rather chaste one, on Crowley's mouth.

"Good," the demon replies, shivering against him. "Great, actually. Then why don't you lay with me at last."

Aziraphale smiles into another kiss they share, and then Crowley pulls him firmly down, and then his clothes are miracled away into the raw firmament, and there is the remarkable sensation of skin on skin, taking Aziraphale's breath away.

And then everything which is destined to happen finally takes place, time acquiring some odd quality which is making it hard to track the order of events and their continuation. But time doesn't matter anymore as there are lots of sensations, and love, and joy, and some muffled words whispered in between, confessions and endearments alike, lips, which once spat curses, now searching for the other's lips for kisses, hands, which once were murderous, now administering loving caresses, and everything is all right.

 

In London, engulfed into the relentless hum of the pouring rain, an angel and a demon sleep peacefully in an old creaky bed entangled into each other's arms, sharing the precious gift they've been granted, and the world around them sighs with relief and moves on.

 

*******

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * One year of love, by Queen


	3. Chapter 3

*******

**Epilogue**

*******

In the morning, when they set off for breakfast to a cosy bakery nearby, the Bentley plays yet another of its insufferable tricks, blasting _You're my best friend_ the moment Aziraphale opens the door on the passenger's side.

"My, but I missed you, too, dear one," the angel says, sounding a bit taken aback but remarkably pleased all the same.

Crowley looks at him, then at the Bentley, almost exasperated.

 

 _Ooh you make me live now honey,_ it sings cheerfully in Mercury's voice.

 

"And he's telling me he had no idea," the demon mutters under his breath. "With this obstinate thing singing to him, all the time, he's telling me he had no idea. I'm in love with an idiot, indeed."

When he gets behind the wheel, he gives Aziraphale a suspicious look over the rim of his sunglasses.

 

 _You're my sunshine!_ the Bentley goes on, enthusiastically.

 

"And may I ask for exactly how long you've had a love affair with _my_ car, angel?"

Infuriatingly, the blessed angel smiles radiantly, if more radiant than he's been smiling the entire morning is physically possible.

 

 _I really loooove you!_ the Bentley drones in the background.

 

"Now, my dear, I do understand that being jealous is in your job description, but don't take it that far, will you?"

Crowley looks pointedly at the angel for a while, then huffs, shakes his head and starts the engine.

"You're insufferable, Aziraphale," he says, looking at the sunlit road ahead, smiling despite himself. "I love you."

**Author's Note:**

> The title refers to Queen's 'No one but you (Only the good die young)', of course, which was recorded long after Freddie's death, but since I needed this song to play in '91 I allowed myself some tweaking with the reality (and what the hell, I'm the boss in my universe) XD
> 
> As to Aziraphale's unfortunate and very foolish death here, I still abhor the idea of it, but it was the only thing I could come up with to separate him from Crowley to make the latter suffer a bit. Luckily, it means only that he needed to get another body, so I forgave myself for it XD


End file.
